His father was in the front room that Mama grandly called the “parlor,” passed out and snoring drunkenly. His mama was in the kitchen, her back to him as she busied herself putting away the dishes. She was obviously being as quiet as she could so as not to disturb Da and touch off another round.
John came up to her and slid his arms around her waist, burying his face in the soft folds of her dress. Mama flinched at his touch and gently moved away from the pressure of his arms. When she turned to face him, John saw the dark welt below her left eye. Her cheekbone was a small purple ridge with a sickly yellow center.
“Your supper’s on the stove,” she said. “I saved you some. ’N there are some scraps for Shep in the bucket by the door.”
She smiled bravely as she ruffled his thin hair, but he could see that her heart was breaking, if not already broken.
“You need to get to bed early tonight too. Da says he’s taking you to the mine tomorrow.”
Even though he had known it was inevitable, John was stunned. A cold, bottomless pit opened in his stomach, and his throat tightened.
Mama gazed at him, tears in her eyes as she stroked his hair harder, plastering it to his skull.
“It’s so dark and cold in the mine,” he said in a small voice. “All the time.”
“Yes, it is,” Mama replied, “but Da says it’s time you started to earn your keep.”
John wanted to protest that he had to go to school . . . that he didn’t know what, but he was positive there was something better for him outside of Coalton and the mine. His lower lip started to tremble, but he vowed to himself that he would not break down in front of Mama.
“Only nine years old,” Mama said softly to herself, and her voice broke into a wrenching sob that brought the tears to John’s eyes, too. He turned his back to her and covered his face with his hands so she wouldn’t see him cry.
THE NEXT MORNING, shortly before dawn, John and his da marched side by side up to the offices of the J. C. Harris Mining Company. Da was grimly silent, his head bowed, his hat in hand. He kept his other big hand clamped on John’s thin shoulder as if he expected that his son would bolt for the hills.
They entered the brick building that housed the offices. After clearing his throat, Da looked down at John and scowled. He licked the palm of his hand and flattened John’s hair before knocking on the superintendent’s door. The plaque on the door read: MR. HARRY COMSTOCK—MANAGER.
“What d’yah want?” a voice said within.
John shuddered, noticing that the voice was as rough and pitiless as his da’s was when he was in his cups.
“It’s Otto Schmitz, Mr. Comstock. My boy here wants work, so I brought him to see you.”
“Bring him on in, then,” said the voice.
Otto opened the door and pushed John in ahead of him, making him stumble. Once the boy caught his balance, he looked around in awe.
Behind a big desk strewn with papers sat a big man with impressive muttonchop whiskers. He was bald on the top of his head, but the hair along the sides was long, reaching to his collar. He was wearing a white shirt and a brocade waistcoat. The collar was greasy and gray, and the vest stained. The golden links of a pocket-watch chain stretched across his bulging belly.
The walls of the room were covered with maps and blueprints that made no sense to John. The air was filled with cigar smoke that hung in dense, blue rafters.
Mr. Comstock looked John up and down as if he were a small horse being put up for auction. His eyes were as blue and cold as chips of ice.
“What’s your name, son?” Mr. Comstock asked. His voice made a hollow booming sound that reminded John of thunder echoing off the high hills behind his house.
“John. John Schmitz, if you please. Sir.”
A trace of a smile lit the man’s face.
“ ‘If you please,’ now, is it?” he said, and he shot a curious look at John’s da.
John did his best to remain calm as he stared at Mr. Comstock.
The manager’s eyes narrowed.
“How old?” he said, addressing Da.
“Twelve, sir,” Da said, looking down as the floor as if he knew Mr. Comstock knew he was lying.
“A tad small for twelve, don’tcha think?” He moved closer to John and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it hard.
“Not much meat on him, I’d say.”
He looked down at John and smiled thinly.
“So, kiddo, you want to work in the mines like your papa, here. ’S’at it?”
“No, sir,” John said. “But my da says I must.”
Mr. Comstock guffawed at that.
“You’re honest, kid. I’ll grant you that.” Mr. Comstock laughed a loud, humorless laugh. “And how old did your father say you was? Twelve? Is that right?”
John’s gut tightened. He had no idea what to say, so for a moment or two, he said nothing.
“The man asked you a question,” his da said, prodding him with a sharp elbow to the shoulder.
“I’m nine, sir. Be ten in February.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Comstock said, casting a sidelong glance at Da.
Satisfied, Mr. Comstock walked back around his desk and sat down, huffing as he did. He picked up the stogie that had been smoldering in the ashtray all this time and gave it a few vicious puffs. Blue clouds erupted, and the end glowed with a bright orange ring that reminded John of how at night a rat’s eye will catch the lantern light just right and look like that.
“We’re full up in the breakers right now,” Mr. Comstock said. John had a momentary flash of hope. Maybe they didn’t need him, and he’d go to school after all. “So we’ll start you as a trapper.” Mr. Comstock eyed him steadily. “Sixty cents a week. Be here tomorrow morning at five o’clock in the A.M. Not one minute late. You’ll work till five in the evening every day but Sunday. Got it?”
“Yes . . . Yes, sir,” John replied, trying as hard as he could to sound confident and grateful for the job. Sixty cents a week sounded like a lot of money.
“Thank you, Mr. Comstock . . . sir,” Da said, bowing so much it looked like he had a coiled spring in his back.
“Now you, Schmitz. Get to work,” Mr. Comstock said with a growl that sounded too much like the way his da spoke to Mama. “And you, boy. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, five o’clock sharp.”
“Yes, sir,” John said. “Thank you, sir.”
Da shoved John out the office door and cuffed him on the back of his head. John’s cheeks flushed with shame and rage.
“That’ll teach you to catch me out in a lie,” Da said.
John heard Mr. Comstock’s mirthless laugh from behind the closed door.
AT FIRST, JOHN had taken comfort that he was working as a trapper and not in the breakers. The boys working there sorted coal all day long under the thin light from the grimy windows, and they got whipped if they didn’t do their job fast enough to suit the foreman—and they were never fast enough. John had seen them coughing up thick gobs of coal dust that turned their spit as black as dried blood.
But it wasn’t long before he decided that being a trapper might be even worse.
His job was to sit or crouch in the dark for twelve hours straight, with only a small lamp and some candles in case of an emergency, with rats for company, waiting to open the mine shaft doors for the mules as they dragged heavy carts of coal up to the surface and back down again. Opening and shutting big heavy wooden doors. That was it for twelve hours a day, six days a week. John tried not to think about the reason for the doors in the first place—to contain an explosion, if one should happen.
Even on his first day, he was near to freezing in the cold mine shaft, and in twelve hours, he never caught a glimpse of daylight. At least there were windows in the breaker building, and the boys who worked there could go outside for their fifteen-minute lunch break or to take a piss.
John felt sorry for the poor mules that lived their entire lives deep within the mines and rarely saw daylight or
took a breath of fresh air. Their eyes and nostrils were coated with a thick black paste of coal dust and mucus.
Within a week on the job, John’s pity for the beasts got him into trouble with one of the older boys, Rudy McIntyre. Rudy was a husky, heavy-browed boy who cracked his whip to make the mules move faster as they approached the doors, hoping to catch one of the trappers asleep on the job and make his mules crash through the door. One day, as the cart was passing through the door, Rudy caught John sneaking a bit of carrot from Mama’s garden to one of his mules.
“Hey there! You don’t touch my mules, boy-o” Rudy yelled.
Before John could back away, Rudy snapped his whip, catching John on the forearm. Even through John’s heavy coat, it stung like a wasp bite. John had one last piece of carrot in his pocket, and he shot Rudy a defiant glance before he gave it to the other mule. He enjoyed the soft, warm touch of the mule’s lips on his palm. Rudy shot a look of pure hatred at John and would have said—and done—more, but the mules kept trudging ahead and would have left him behind.
“I’ll git you, yer bugger,” Rudy roared.
After the shift was over, Rudy was good on his word. He waited outside the mine shaft entrance for John to appear.
“I been wantin’ to have a talk wi’ yer,” Rudy said.
Fearing what might come next, John kept walking until Rudy came up behind, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around.
“If you feed my mules again, you little cockchafer, I’ll whip the bleedin’ daylights outa yer.”
John wasn’t big enough to fight back, but he didn’t have to stand here and take such abuse, either. He turned to go, but Rudy grabbed him by the shoulder again.
“I ain’t done talkin’ to yer, boy-o,” he said, and before John could react, Rudy swung one foot forward and hooked it around John’s ankle. Heaving forward, he shoved John backward. A grunt of surprise escaped John as he lost his balance, his arms pinwheeling until he landed in a puddle of mud and coal dust. Several other boys—even a few adults nearby—saw this and laughed. John splashed around, trying to get to his feet, but the ground was slippery. Rudy started for him again, but John somehow found his feet and ran away, weaving and dodging between men, animals, and coal carts. He never looked back to see if Rudy was chasing him until he arrived, breathless, on his own front porch.
When Mama saw what a mess he was, she told him to go take a bath in the rain barrel out back while she cleaned and dried his clothes. Later, before Da came home from the saloon, she mended the tear in the sleeve from the whip. John was both relieved and sad that she didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t want to tell her, but he wanted her to hug him and tell him it would be all right. It was becoming obvious that it would never be all right . . . for either of them.
“Go on upstairs. Look on your bed,” Mama said when he came back inside, shivering and covered only by a rough towel. His skin was pink and raw from scrubbing, but somehow he still felt dirty and miserable, even as he did as he was told. Upstairs, he found a box of colored chalks resting on his pillow.
Mama had followed him upstairs and was standing in the doorway to his small bedroom.
“I noticed you haven’t been making any drawings lately. I thought this would help.”
John looked at her, his heart swelling with love and gratitude, but then a soul-crushing thought occurred to him.
“Where . . . where’d you get the money?” he asked.
His mama smiled and shook her head.
“Don’t you be asking as to where a gift comes from,” she said. “Just accept it with appreciation.”
John gazed at his mother with tears in his eyes.
“Thank you, Mama,” he said. He was trying not to think how his da would react if he knew she was spending money on something like this.
Even as he spoke, he barely stifled a yawn behind his hand. These days it was all he could do to stay awake long enough to eat his supper before tumbling into bed. There had even been a few nights during the first weeks at the mine that he had been sound asleep by the time Da came home. If his parents had argued and fought, he’d slept right through it.
On most Sundays after church, depending on the weather, he would take long walks up into the hills with Shep. Now that he was working, John felt sorry for Shep because he knew the dog was woefully neglected. Gone were the carefree days of running through the woods together or playing baseball with his friends on the empty lot behind the train yards. And it seemed as though fewer of his friends were around. Most of them had taken jobs at the mine, too. Only the lucky ones, the children of the foremen and shopkeepers, went to school. Unless John found a way out of the mine, his fate was sealed, and he would end up just like Da. The thought made his stomach churn.
“DO YOU REMEMBER when we would go to the library and look at the animal and bird pictures in those big books? Your favorites were Mr. Audubon’s. Remember?”
It was a rainy Sunday evening, and John was chafing because he had been stuck inside the house all day with nothing to do. His mama had another bruise on her forehead, but it was starting to fade. The purple edges were now a sickly yellow, and the crusty scab above her right eye made her eyebrow appear thicker than normal.
“Why, I remember how we’d come home, and all you’d ever want to do is make copies of the pictures you’d seen. ’Member?”
“Yes, Mama. I remember.”
He was looking forlornly out the window as rain pelted the panes. In the dark woods behind the house, thin streams of water gushed down the hillside, looking like shimmering, twisting silver ribbons. Through the rippled smears on the glass, he could see Shep’s dark form, huddled as far back in the doghouse as he could get away from the storm. Rainwater pelted the mud puddle in front of the doghouse. The water looked like thick chocolate milk. On days like this, John wished Da would let him bring Shep into the house, but he knew better than to ask.
“You haven’t used any of the chalk I gave you,” Mama said. “At least I haven’t seen any drawings.”
“I haven’t had time, Mama, with working so hard all day.”
“I know . . . I know,” she said, lowering her gaze.
Those trips to the library, and drawing birds and animals, now were like memories that belonged to someone else. John felt guilty for not wanting to draw anymore.
“Thanks for the chalk, Mama,” he said. “I promise I’ll start drawing again real soon.”
“I certainly hope so. Those pictures you drew for me back when . . . Why, they looked so real I thought they were ’bout to jump right off the page.”
John smiled at that. He’d thought the same thing, but that was when he was younger. Now he was a working man, and maybe he didn’t have time for such childish things.
“G’dnight, Mama,” he said. He felt exhaustion deep in his bones just thinking about going back to work in the mines in the morning.
“Good night, darlin’ boy. I’ll be up in a little while.”
After John had gone to work in the mine, Mama had taken to sleeping on a pallet in John’s little room, leaving Da to sleep in the big bedroom alone.
“Your da snores and keeps me awake,” she had said. That was true—Da did snore like a hog—but John suspected there was more to it. He had often heard different, frightening noises coming from the bedroom. He didn’t know what they were, but he was glad Mama felt safer in his room. Especially after she put a heavy lock on his door and secured it every night.
John trudged upstairs, put on his nightshirt, and got into bed. Rain pelted the tin roof of the house, but as he drifted off to sleep, an idea popped into his head that made him smile for what seemed like the first time in weeks.
AS HE HIKED up the steep hill to Tunnel Hill Mine Number Two, where he was stationed, John kept a tight grip on the chalk in his coat pocket. He was still smiling at the prospect of what he planned to do. First, though, he had to get past Rudy, who was sure to come at him if he saw him. He moved slowly among the men and machinery, pick
ing his way carefully and keeping a wary eye out for the bully and any of his friends who might also turn on him.
“Get a move on, Schmitz!”
John jumped and, looking up, saw Mr. Kowalchuk, his foreman, glaring at him.
“Teams are already moving. You be late, and I’ll fire yer hide.”
John hurried into the mine opening and made his way as quickly as he could through the tunnels to his post at Trap Door Number Three. He had no idea how deep underground he was, and he didn’t want to think about how many tons of earth were above him and could come crashing down without warning. The surrounding darkness was lit only by the small kerosene lantern he carried. The air was powdery with coal dust that got into his nose and mouth. When he got to his post, he carefully placed his lantern on the hard-packed floor of the mine next to the rough wooden bench where he sat, waiting for the teams to come through.
He smiled when he took a piece of chalk from his pocket and began to draw. On the trapdoor itself, someone had scrawled in large letters: “SHUT THIS DOOR—THAT MEANS YOU,” but there was still plenty of flat space for him to draw.
And draw he did.
The first thing he drew was a portrait of Shep that perfectly caught his dog’s mournful but loving look. Then he started to create a fantastic menagerie drawn on the wooden planks of the door. His hand moved quickly, and he was barely conscious of looking at what he was drawing. His eyes were unfocused, and he was simply staring inward, into his mind, and tracing onto the wood what he saw there.
As he drew, he had no idea of time passing until from down deep in the tunnel, there came a grinding of cartwheels on the rails, the huffing and snorting of mules pulling the load, and the yipping and shouting as colliers cracked their whips to keep the animals moving.
As he waited for the team to arrive, John looked at what he had drawn on the door. Large areas of it were filled with detailed drawings of various animals. Nearest to the center of the door, where he had started working, was the portrait of Shep. Surrounding him were birds and deer, rabbits and butterflies. Closer to the edges, farthest away from the lantern light, he had drawn rats and wolves, spiders and tigers—vicious animals. He had no clear memory of drawing any of them.
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